“Have you still not moved out?” the husband asked coldly. “You’re alone, no kids. Free the apartment for me and her…”
“Oh, I have no strength left,” the beauty sighed.
Anfisa had spent the whole day at her brother Taras’s place. His wife, Larisa, had recently given birth to a lovely little girl, Alina, but had fallen ill herself. The caring sister-in-law took over looking after the baby.
Her three-month-old niece instantly won her aunt’s heart. Tiny fingers, chubby cheeks, a mischievous glance — all filled her with tenderness. Anfisa treated the girl as if she were her own.
“I should buy a new rattle,” flashed through her mind.
At home, a pleasant coolness greeted her in the room. Anfisa tossed her bag onto the couch and sank wearily into the armchair. Her thoughts once again returned to Alina.
Glancing at the clock, she noticed it was already six — time to start cooking.
“My husband will be late again,” she said aloud, standing up.
After a quick shower, Anfisa looked at her reflection in the mirror — with bitterness, she noticed the first signs of aging.
She changed into home clothes (she couldn’t stand robes) and went into the living room, almost tripping over toys scattered by Vova, her sister-in-law’s mischievous son.
“Damn kid,” she muttered, picking up the plastic junk.
Her husband’s five-year-old nephew often stayed with them. Artyom adored him, doted on him as if he were his own.
The clatter of dishes sounded from the kitchen. Anfisa began cooking when suddenly the front door slammed. Surprised, she raised her eyebrows — her husband was home unusually early.
“Darling, I’ve just come from my brother’s,” she called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s not ready yet, if you’re hungry we can go to the pizzeria?”
“We need to have a serious talk,” came the reply.
The word serious rarely boded well. Wiping her hands, Anfisa went into the living room. Her husband sat on the couch, looking at her strangely. She silently sat down opposite in the armchair, raising her eyebrows — a sign she was ready to listen.
“I have another woman,” the man said calmly.
The news didn’t surprise Anfisa; she had long suspected something was wrong.
“Divorce?” she asked at once, trying to predict what would follow.
“Her name is Miroslava. She’s pregnant.”
“Congratulations!” she said, barely restraining harsher words. “You finally got what you wanted — now there’ll be a legitimate heir. I hope this time it works out,” she added with icy politeness.
Anfisa couldn’t have children, and this subject had split their family more than once. Artyom himself seemed a good man; she had believed herself lucky to fall in love with an intelligent, attentive husband. People envied them, not knowing the price of that happiness.
“You’ll have to move out,” he said evenly again. “You’re alone, no kids — such a big apartment is useless for you. Leave it for me and the baby.”
“And for your mistress,” Anfisa added.
“For Miroslava,” Artyom clarified, raising his eyes to his wife, waiting for her response.
Tears rolled down Anfisa’s cheeks. She had dreamed of giving the man she once loved madly a baby, two, three… But the doctor’s harsh verdict had shattered all hope.
“It’s not my fault I’m barren!” she cried out, jumping to her feet, wiping her tears.
“You knew sooner or later it would come to this,” her husband retorted, his voice rising. “I need my own child.
My own, not from an orphanage!” Anfisa understood him. She remembered how tenderly Artyom fussed over his nephew. He adored children — but had none of his own.
“So, divorce?” the woman asked, barely holding back sobs.
“Yes. But right now, you need to free the apartment,” he repeated without emotion.
“When?” Anfisa asked quietly, lowering her eyes.
“Even now,” he shrugged. “You can move into my small flat.”
She hated that ground-floor apartment with all her soul because of the perpetually closed curtains — beneath the windows was a pedestrian walkway.
Yet it was there they had lived the first three years of their marriage before moving into the spacious home, and the tiny flat had stood empty since.
“Well, I really did know — I just didn’t believe it, but I knew,” Anfisa thought as she walked into the bedroom. Her heart ached. “Children… Is it my fault?” The sting of her own inadequacy cut sharply. “Why me?” she asked herself while pulling out her travel suitcase. “Yes, they need a big home, and I’ll make do with the small flat. Pity…”
Twenty minutes later Anfisa came out of the bedroom. There were no tears on her face. Turning away from her husband, unwilling to look at him, she quietly said:
“I’ll come back for the rest later — when you’re not here.”
“Need help?” Artyom asked reluctantly, coming closer.
“I’ll manage myself,” she snapped.
Seven years of marriage — and this is the finale, drifted weakly through her mind. “Maybe he’ll be lucky with that…” Anfisa refused to utter her name, “…mistress.” Bitterly smirking, she left what once had been her home.
The cold wind lashed her face as Anfisa approached the car, opened the trunk, and threw the suitcase inside.
Sitting behind the wheel, she noticed her fingers trembling. Tears once again streamed down her cheeks.
“It’s not my fault,” she whispered through sobs. “Not my fault…”
Her thoughts were in disarray. Just yesterday, life had seemed stable. Today it had collapsed. Artyom, her beloved husband, had cast her out of their home — just like that, without a single apology.
“For whom? For your mistress!” Her fingers gripped the steering wheel. “You were afraid to tell me earlier, you knew I’d refuse. But she’s pregnant… Well then, happiness to you both… Though, considering your generosity with living space, I doubt it will last long,” she muttered bitterly.
Turning the key, the old Lada rumbled to life. Pressing the gas, Anfisa drove off. Ahead loomed the rented flat where she had once been so happy with her husband.
Memories surged like a tide. There they were, she and Artyom — young, carefree — moving into that tiny apartment. Laughing as they unpacked boxes with their modest belongings. The road stretched into the unknown.
“We’ll have a big family,” Anfisa had said, gazing ahead.
“Of course, sunshine,” Artyom had smiled. “A whole football team!”
But reality proved harsh. The doctor’s diagnosis sounded like a verdict. “Infertility” — the word left a deep scar on her soul.
Back then, the young woman felt it was the end. Yet there were those who reached out to help. Artyom didn’t leave her, insisting that childlessness was not the end of the world, many people lived that way, and they would cope.
Aunt Nadezhda became her true support. Childless herself, she had managed to adopt a little girl from an orphanage.
“Don’t give up, my dear,” Aunt Nadezhda said. “Life goes on. Love isn’t measured in shared genes. Look at me and Liza.”
“But Artyom… he wants his own so badly,” Anfisa doubted.
“That’s his fear talking, not reason,” her aunt shook her head. “One’s own is the one you love and raise. Blood is just biology. True fatherhood lies in the heart.”
Her faith was infectious. Gradually, Anfisa began to emerge from the darkness. A thought arose: why not adopt themselves?
But when Artyom heard the suggestion, he exploded. His words were seared into her memory forever:
“I want only my own child! I won’t tolerate a stranger in my house! It’s not the same!”
After that conversation, the subject of adoption was closed.
Still, doubt took root in Anfisa’s soul. “What if the doctors were wrong? Maybe it isn’t me? But Artyom refuses even to consider seeing a doctor. What should I do?” she tormented herself.
A couple of years after the wedding, the fire of love hadn’t yet gone out, but her thirst for motherhood clouded her reason. The worm of suspicion about male infertility gnawed at her. And so, Mark — a man from her past — returned into Anfisa’s life.
Their secret meetings lasted several months. No miracle happened — no pregnancy came. Then Mark was replaced by Denis. The story repeated itself.
Anfisa had even begun thinking of a third, but she came to her senses just in time, realizing the futility. She felt disgusted with herself. Why? For the sake of a phantom chance to have a child?! She stopped before completely losing her dignity.
In the car, her thoughts again turned to Artyom. Once she had idolized him. She valued his intellect, tenderness, kindness. Who could have imagined he would act this way?
Yet even now Anfisa found excuses for him. She understood why he had taken a mistress. And why the woman was carrying his child.
“You wanted a child, and you’ll have one. But why didn’t you tell me earlier? I wouldn’t have stood in the way of a divorce…” she whispered, staring at the wet asphalt. “Coward. An ordinary coward.”
Deep down, the woman still held gratitude to her husband for the bright moments of the past, but now that gratitude was drowning in a sea of pain and betrayal.
Evening wrapped the city, lights came on. The only sound breaking the silence was the hum of tires on asphalt. The car rolled smoothly up to the old five-story building. Parking, Anfisa stared at the house where she was to live.
“Strange…” — the lights were on in the apartment.
She left the suitcase in the car. Frowning, the woman headed into the entrance. The peeling walls smelled of damp and old plaster.
At her door, she rang the bell. Behind it came quick footsteps, the lock clicked. A pleasant-looking blonde in a fluffy robe stood on the threshold.
“Hello, what do you want?” the stranger smiled with emphasized politeness…
Anfisa froze.
“Excuse me, and you are… who?” she managed to ask, feeling her fingertips grow cold.
The blonde raised her brows in surprise, as if the question were utterly absurd:
“I live here. And you?”
“I’m Anfisa. The wife of the apartment’s owner. And you?” Her voice acquired a metallic firmness.
“Ah, I see!” The blonde hesitated, her smile turning tense. “Please, come in…”
The narrow hallway was neat: someone else’s clothes hung in the closet, unfamiliar shoes stood in perfect order on the floor. Anfisa’s eyes swept the space, lingering on each detail.
“My husband and I rented this place a few months ago,” the blonde explained quickly, catching her look. “Here’s the lease agreement for two years.”
She held out the document. Anfisa skimmed the main points, recognizing her husband’s signature. Controlled fury flashed across her face.
“Damn him!” she hissed through clenched teeth.
The blonde recoiled in fright.
“Something wrong?”
“It’s not your fault. I’m talking about my ‘beloved husband,’” Anfisa clarified, abruptly handing the papers back.
“Tea?” the young woman took a step toward the kitchen, clearly hoping to smooth things over.
“No, thank you. I’ll be going,” Anfisa turned toward the door, avoiding her eyes.
The clouds had thickened, and heavy drops drummed on the roof of her car.
The woman exhaled hoarsely, pressing her forehead to the cool glass. The day had finally collapsed. What now? raced through her head. Go back home and cause a scene? But she had never been good at shouting. In her youth she had even earned the nickname “dough” — not for her figure (she was slim), but for her softness and inability to refuse.
“You’ll regret this,” Anfisa’s lips curled into a cold smirk.
Rain lashed harder, streaming down the windshield. Her thoughts were tangled, but gradually lined up with clarity.
She remembered how her father, barely able to hide his feelings, had handed her the keys to this apartment, where she and her husband had lived for four years. It had been a generous gift, his last major investment in her happiness. She knew how much he valued his parental home, but her grandparents were gone, and her parents rarely went to the dacha anymore. So he had sold the property and bought his daughter a three-room flat in the center.
Suddenly, it struck her. Starting the engine, Anfisa sped through the night streets, knowing exactly where to go.
Soon her slender figure stepped out of the car, carrying a bright cake box. She climbed to the third floor of a familiar building and rang the bell.
“Who the hell is it now?” came an annoyed voice behind the door.
It flew open. On the threshold, in a stretched-out sweater, stood the red-haired Yulia.
“Anfisa?! What a surprise!” she exclaimed, breaking into a broad smile.
“Hi, Yulya. Will you let me stay the night?” Anfisa’s tired request rang in her voice.
Her friend immediately stepped back, motioning her inside:
“Of course, come in. What happened? Just look at your eyes…”
Even in the hallway Anfisa caught the warm aroma of fresh tea and something home-cooked.
“Auntie Anfisa!” piped a joyful child’s voice.
Little curly-haired Polina ran to hug the guest. Anfisa gently stroked the girl’s head.
“Hello, my dragonfly. How are you?”
The child clapped her hands when she spotted the box.
“Ooh, cake! Can I have a piece? Right now?”
Yulia shook her head firmly but with affection:
“Dinner first, missy. Then dessert. Deal?”
A few minutes later, the women sat in the kitchen. Anfisa sighed, sipping hot tea.
“Artyom, that brilliant strategist, rented out his little flat without even bothering to warn me. The cynical bastard!”
Her friend gave a low whistle, putting down her spoon.
“Wow… such fire from our ‘dough’! And you?”
Anfisa smiled bitterly.
“And I, as it turns out, am now a person without a fixed address.”
The redhead studied her friend intently.
“Stay as long as you need. There’s plenty of space — my man took off, thank God. It’s easier to breathe without him.”
Anfisa nodded gratefully, when suddenly a thought lit up her face.
“Listen, can I take Polina with me tonight? For a sleepover?”
At this, the girl, busy slurping soup, jumped with delight.
“Hooray! To Auntie Anfisa’s! Mom, can I? Please, pleeease…” She was already hopping off her chair to run pack her things.
Her mother scratched her nose thoughtfully, smiling:
“I don’t mind. At least I’ll sleep like a human.”
“Perfect!” Anfisa stood, her energy restored. “Then let’s go, princess! Real adventures are about to begin!”
With a squeal of joy, Polina dashed into her room.
“Thank you, sunshine. I’ll explain later,” Anfisa leaned over to kiss her friend’s crown.
Ten minutes later, the excited girl jumped into the car and settled into her child seat. Anfisa buckled the straps securely and pulled Polina’s bag close.
“Remember the rules?” she asked firmly yet warmly, glancing into the rearview mirror.
The girl nodded solemnly, eyes wide.
“Yes, Auntie Anfisa! Sit still, don’t unbuckle, don’t distract the driver. I’ll be good!”
“Good girl,” Anfisa smiled. “Then off we go!”
Half an hour later they pulled up to the house. Parking, Anfisa quickly helped the child unbuckle, and together they dashed for the entrance, escaping the downpour.
On the right floor, Anfisa firmly drew out the key and opened the door.
As if on cue, Artyom appeared in the hallway. His tousled hair, wrinkled shirt, and bare feet spoke plainly of recent rest.
“What is this? Why did you come back?” he blurted in fright, casting a suspicious glance at the little girl pressed against her aunt’s leg, sandals already tossed aside.
“I came home, darling,” Anfisa retorted coldly, with deliberate nonchalance, removing her wet coat. “Does that need explaining?”
Little Polina, eyes flashing in fear, darted into the familiar room with toys.
“What the hell!” the man barked, stepping forward. “You don’t belong here! Understand? Get out!”
Anfisa ignored his words as if they were no more than irritating noise. Lifting her chin proudly, she headed to the kitchen, from which light and the smell of food poured.
There sat Miroslava, the very one who had decided to take her place. Heavily made-up, she pretended not to notice the hostess, devouring a caviar sandwich — clearly from Anfisa’s stores.
“How touching,” Anfisa’s voice rang like an icy bell. “Feasting at my expense? Enjoying the caviar? A bit extravagant for… a temporary guest.”
For a moment, Miroslava froze, then ostentatiously bit off an even larger piece.
“How long will you stay?” Artyom finally cut in, shifting nervously in his chair. “Here for your things? Need help packing?” His tone aimed for businesslike, but the tremor betrayed him.
Anfisa turned to him slowly, her gaze a scalpel:
“Charming. Have you forgotten whose apartment this is? Mine. Bought with my money, while you were… what was it again? Ah yes, ‘promising projects.’”
“So what?” Artyom tried to inhale courage. “You don’t have children, and Miroslava…” he nodded at her belly, “is already five months along. It’s hard for her!”
“Really?” Anfisa leaned toward Miroslava with exaggerated interest. “Congratulations. Although, honestly? It looks more like she just ate too much. But anyway—” she waved dismissively, “it’s none of my concern. Your reproductive feats no longer concern me.”
Artyom coughed nervously. Miroslava snorted, crumbs scattering on the table.
“Be reasonable,” Artyom babbled. “You only need one room, right? And we’ll soon need more space… for the crib…”
“Shut up,” Anfisa cut him off, her tone so sharp that Artyom instinctively recoiled. She stepped right up to him, her palm resting on his cheek — a gesture of false tenderness. “How you always reproached me for not giving you an heir. Remember? ‘An incomplete family,’ ‘selfish’….” Her voice grew syrupy sweet. “Well then… congratulations on finally finding wholeness.” And she kissed him, long and lingering, full on the lips. Miroslava choked on her sandwich, coughing violently.
“I… I’ll help you pack!” Artyom gasped, breaking free.
“You always reproached me about children,” Anfisa no longer looked at him, pulling out keys. “I don’t care what you think of me now. Here—” she flung the keys to his old flat down at his feet with a sharp clang. “Keys to your old one-room. Get out of my territory. Right now.”
“It’s… it’s occupied,” Artyom muttered, eyes lowered. “Rented out… Contract…”
Anfisa’s eyes narrowed to slits. A loud slap cracked through the hall.
“Scoundrel!” her once even voice thundered. “So you sent me to that flat knowing it was rented? You deliberately set me up? So I’d look like a fool, evicting strangers?!”
“Anfis, calm down…” Artyom started, covering his cheek.
“I don’t care where you go!” she interrupted. “Rent a hole by the day, then find something. Or head straight to the maternity ward. I hear they give out beds there.”
Miroslava smirked maliciously, finally finding her tongue:
“And you won’t evict your tenants, will you? Contract’s binding. You love contracts so much, don’t you, Artyom? If you break it — you’ll pay a penalty. For three months. A tidy sum, hm?”
Artyom’s face flushed crimson. Miroslava quickly slipped out into the room, feigning busyness.
“You hear your… mistress?” Anfisa stood before him, a coiled spring. “Pack your things. Today. Now. You can come for the rest Friday. Don’t be late.”
She shoved him hard in the chest. Stumbling back, he barely kept his balance against the wall.
“Don’t come — and all your junk, all your ‘memories’ of our life together, go straight to the trash. You’re not registered here. To me, you’re nothing. Air. Get out!”
Head bowed, Artyom shuffled to the bedroom. At once, Miroslava darted back to the kitchen, squawking loudly:
“She’s lost her mind! And how did you ever live with her, poor thing? Such a hysteric! That tone! ‘My apartment’… We’ll be the owners here soon enough!” She clucked like a hen, watching Artyom drag out suitcases.
“Mira, help with something, not just your tongue!” he barked, tossing shirts into a bag. “It’s because of you all this happened!”
“Me?!” Miroslava screeched. “You brought me here yourself, darling! ‘We’ll relax while she’s away!’ And now it’s my fault? I ate the caviar all by myself too, did I?!”
Half an hour of tense packing and bickering later, the couple finally disappeared.
Silence settled. Anfisa, leaning against the doorframe, took a deep breath, trying to steady her trembling hands. Slowly, she walked into the kitchen.
She turned on the water absentmindedly and began scrubbing grease off the dishes — the mechanical motions helped her calm down. The mess left by the uninvited guests irritated her, but at the same time gave her something solid to hold on to.
A few minutes later, the light patter of little feet echoed through the apartment.
Polina ran out of the room, clutching a bright sheet of paper.
“Aunt Fisa! Look what I drew!” she exclaimed, climbing onto a chair and proudly holding out her picture.
Her blue eyes shone with unfeigned pride.
Anfisa flinched, shaken from her thoughts. The sight of the happy child, her trust, melted the ice within. A tender, genuine smile touched her lips.
“Oh, how beautiful! Show me quickly, sunshine! Who did you draw?”
“Here’s Mom,” Polina pointed at a figure with yellow curls, “this is me!” she indicated a small figure beside her, “and this is YOU!” Her little finger stopped on the biggest figure with a beaming smile. “This is my family! The BEST family!”
Anfisa froze. The words “my family,” spoken with such sincere warmth, sounded like balm. Something stirred deep inside her, something fragile yet vital. Despite all the bitterness of betrayal, a wave of unexpected, pure happiness washed over her. She hugged the girl tightly, pressing her close.
“Shall we take a bath?” Anfisa asked, her voice unusually soft. “With bubbles and little boats?”
Polina squealed with delight:
“Yes! Yes! Yes! With pink bubbles!”
Her ringing laughter joyfully filled the apartment, which no longer felt empty or foreign. Anfisa laughed in response, easily scooping the little one into her arms.
“Then let’s pick the best-smelling bubbles! And we’ll choose the fastest boat for you!”
They headed for the bathroom, leaving worries and anger behind. Outside, as if in tune with the change of mood, the clouds began to part, and the last rays of the sun timidly slid along the wall, painting it with warm light.
The bright laughter and splashing water filled the space, finally dispelling the heavy tension. Looking at Polina’s happy, trusting face, Anfisa suddenly realized with perfect clarity: everything would be all right. They would manage. The three of them. Because now she truly had a family. A real one.
